staple for the ceiling. He had it done Saturday night, and having bought a windlass Friday afternoon, I worked diligently all day Sunday putting the pulleys, ropes, etc., in position. When this was done I felt prepared for any emergency, and went home. The next week came, and the next, but it brought not my friend from the frontier. Finally, one day in early March, when I had nearly given him up, he made his appearance. The snow lay thick upon the ground, the heavens were leaden in their aspect; in fact, winter was lingering in the lap—”

“Oh, bosh!” I exclaimed. I had no patience with his maudlin sentimentality, and, moreover, I was getting interested in the story and wanted to get the denouement.

“Well,” he continued, “the old fellow came in. I inquired if his tooth had ever troubled him since, and he said that it had. He had, in fact, come down to have it stirred up again. I seated him in the chair, harnessed him in, and got a pair of wrought steel pincers that I knew to be reliable, and hooked on to the tusk, Then I let down the rope, on the end of which was a vise—by the by,” he said, glancing at a cigar I was smoking, “I have some small vices. Smoking is one of them; give me a weed.”

I gave him one, and admonished him that I was impatient for the finale of his narrative. He was several minutes getting lighted up, when he resumed by saying: “I fastened the vise on to the forceps, and took up my position behind him, where the windlass was. I let on about one horse power, and the only impression it made on him was to lift up his left foot. Every time I put on steam I noticed that his foot came up about ten inches, and when I eased up again it touched the floor. Then I went around and asked him how he felt. He said everything was all right. I again took my place at the windlass, and put on two- horse power the first thing. His left foot went up under the chair like a flash, but the molar came not. I put on three-horse power, but no result. Four-horse power, ditto. I was frantic, and in my excitement I jumped the machine to its utmost capacity—ten-horse power—and the effect was electrical. I struck on the floor with a heavy thud which stunned me; but, quickly recovering, I rose to my feet and saw the whole at a glance. At the end of the rope hung a perfect skeleton, while in the chair, strapped tightly in, was my customer—that is, the meat part of him. He was actually boned, sir. Well, I investigated the skeleton, and found that the tooth was connected with the bones of the left leg and foot. My patient was dead; he had passed across the darksome river Styx—gone to that mysterious bourne—”

I checked him here; I could stand no more. A smile crept over my features, but his countenance was as the grave.

“You believe that story,” he said, presently.

“Oh, yes,” I answered, “it is the most plausible and touching thing I ever heard.”

He took my hand in his clammy one and shook it savagely, asked for another cigar, and I have never seen him more.

“And what about Block Island,” do you ask? Really you could not expect me to speak of that after such a story as the foregoing. No, indeed.